


act 6, scene 4, line 118

by bwyn, Yuisaki



Series: rings, dimes, and toys [6]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, you either model for allura or you vanish off the face of the earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 17:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13552128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwyn/pseuds/bwyn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuisaki/pseuds/Yuisaki
Summary: “I’m not having a party,” declares Keith.“We’re having a par—No, fuck you, Keith.” Lance pats at his pockets in search of a phone that isn’t on him. “We’re having a party even if it kills you.”***In which Allura considers how to absorb souls through her camera.





	act 6, scene 4, line 118

**Author's Note:**

> AS IT TURNS OUT, magical realism is a legitimate tag so like THAT'LL BE USED IN THE FUTURE. you can bet on it.
> 
> also sry for the wait babs :3ccccccc

 

Eventually—inevitably—one is always caught by Allura. It’s like trying to outrun a downpour. You don’t, because you can’t. She’ll either catch up, or wait until you’re forced to step outside before descending upon you in a veritable monsoon. There’s no outrunning, and there’s no waiting her out.

The fact that she knows this about herself is part of why she’s so terrifying—and she knows that too. Allura gets what she wants.

Luckily she isn’t a bad person.

Thankfully, she doesn’t have to dig in _too_ deep this time. Her targets, after all, come willingly! Seeing them walk through those doors five minutes apart is a sweetness in her cheeks that can only be replicated by jam-filled Timbits and walking into a room plastered with squirrel portraits. They stand awkwardly in the middle of her spartan apartment, anything of aesthetic value pushed to the walls to leave space for her equipment.

“Now that you’re both here,” says Allura, unperturbed by the way both men’s faces spasm nervously, “we can get to the good part!”

And she grabs a rack packed with hangers and rolls it across the floor. There’s at least a dozen pairs of pants, twice the number of shirts, and several hangers solely for belts, suspenders, and ties. As both Lance and Keith watch, Allura reaches around the other side of the rack and drags out what looks like an accessory display from a store—which is exactly what it is, since she sniped it when Target went under in Canada. A pity, really.

“This is so exciting,” she says delightedly. “It’s been some time since I got my choice of model.”

She chooses to ignore the way Lance’s eyebrows twitch at that. It’s harder to ignore when he says, “You make it sound like you _didn’t_ kidnap me.”

“I didn’t!” Allura beams at him, grabbing a pair of red jeans. Hm. Maybe not. “You said you were available and I simply took you up on your offer to help.”

“Help?” says Lance weakly. “ _Offer?”_

Keith blinks at Lance, looks as though he’s hesitating, but he works up the courage to ask, “What… happened?”

“I—”

“I spotted him across campus,” interrupts Allura.

Blue jeans, dark wash? Low rise. The more frayed, the better. Paired with…

“I walked up to him, asked him if he would like to model, and of course he agreed.”

Pale, cool colours in a button-down. Or perhaps a pullover.

“Schoolwork took precedent, but eventually we found a time that worked for both of us.”

Either way, the sleeves are going to have to be rolled up. Forearms bared? Definitely. Allura looks up from her selections, arms weighed down and muscles straining. Lance is staring at her incredulously.

“Did I miss any details?” she asks innocently.

“Details,” Lance repeats, then scoffs. “Oh, I think you might’ve _missed a few—”_

“That we can talk about later,” she cuts in, beaming. She pushes the clothes at Lance and pats him so nicely on the shoulder, that she’s not sure why he flinches. “Now, go to the dressing room and change. I want to see those sleeves rolled up, Lance.”

He gives her a dirty look, but goes in obediently anyway. Perfect.

Now for the problem child.

“If I’m being honest, I don’t know what to do with you,” Allura tells Keith. Keith’s eyes snap from the door to her, surprised. “There’s so many things to consider… that hair… legs… skin… oh, dear.”

Keith shrugs. “I don’t think it’s that complicated. Just throw me in whatever.”

“No,” she says, utterly horrified at the thought. “Keith, _no._ There are clothes you look good in, like Lance, then there are clothes you will absolutely _ruin_.”

“Is… is that a good thing?”

“Yes,” she says, firm. “Now give me a second and let me look at you. Spread your arms.” He does so, looking disgruntled and lost. How adorable. “Okay, turn.” Oh, Shiro, that _physique._ “Alright, just give me a few minutes.”

Clothes. There has to be some clothes that can turn this hoodie-wearing, sleep-deprived, grease-covered mechanic into a gorgeous model. _Something._ Maybe a plain white shirt, to get him away from all those gloomy dark colors and brighten up his face… light jeans; ripped, of course… white sneakers? White sneakers.

She assembles the image in her head and blinks. This—this could actually work.

“Okay,” she murmurs, turning around and placing the clothes in Keith’s arms, “alright, there you go. Remake yourself. Tell me when you’re done so I can send Coran in for makeup.”

“Wh… why makeup?”

“Look in a mirror,” she says flatly. Then she smiles. “I mean that in the best way possible, of course. Those bags aren’t going to disappear themselves, Keith. Now off you go.”

He trots along to the dressing room, quite like a lost puppy. Oh, undergrad kids.

Lance comes out first and the image Allura had in her mind comes to life before her. He freezes on the spot as Allura glides over, inspecting every inch with a critical eye. Good, good, goo—

“Lance.”

He stiffens; she sees his shoulders go taut beneath the fabric. “Yes?”

“What did you do to the sleeves?”

He blinks down at them, brows drawn in nervous confusion. “I… rolled them up.”

“I expected better from you,” murmurs Allura solemnly. Careful not to ruin the fabric, Allura unrolls the sleeves with a series of sharp tugs. “You fold the cuff all the way, and _then_ the rest follows. Like this.”

She smooths out the wrinkles before they set and then proceeds to show Lance exactly how to show a teasing sneak peek of the inner cuff’s different colour. Only once she steps back does Lance seem to relax. Hm, maybe her perfume is a bit strong today. A bit _too_ intimidating in its floral scent.

“Other than that you’re good,” decides Allura. Satisfactory. By the end of the day, she intends to have them be veritable demigods—perhaps Achilles and his Patroclus? Alexander and Hephaestion? Now _that_ is audacious. Perhaps that would be better for another day. For now… “Keith? Are you ready?”

Allura practically sees Lance’s ears perk as he sees an opportunity to needle Keith.

“Having trouble getting dressed?” Lance sidles up towards the other dressing room. “Don’t tell me you need _help?”_

“I do _not_ need you to tutor me in dressing,” grumbles Keith as he pulls open the door and steps out. The moment his eyes land on Lance, he shoots him a scowl that—well, it fades into nothingness. Lance seems to have skipped a breath. Odd, but Allura is more interested in the look she’s compiled.

Allura begins nodding immediately. “Minimalistic truly does suit you, Keith. This is perfect. Now just to touch up your face and hair.”

“Huh?” Keith blinks at her.

“Hair and makeup, Keith.” Allura beckons for him and steers him to sit on a stool. “I’ll just let Coran know we’re ready. Lance, you can take a seat too. Lance. Lance?”

When he doesn’t immediately respond, Allura turns around to look at him, who’s just staring at the far wall. If this is how it’s going to be all day, then Allura expects she’ll have her work cut out for her.

“Lance,” she repeats sharply. His gaze snaps to her, wide and sheepish and… something else. “ _Sit.”_

He sits. At least they’re both still obedient. Whisking around, Allura leaves the room to find Coran. Behind her, she hears Lance say, “I didn’t know it was possible for you to look _clean,_ ” and then Keith reply, “I didn’t know you could look like anything other than a grade nine weeb.” She decides she much prefers the indignant spluttering and following ruckus to the weird quiet from before.

She finds Coran in one of the dressing rooms, flitting around with his makeup pouch already strapped around his waist while he carries—nine? ten?—brushes in one hand and three eyeshadow palettes in the other. His eyes meet hers in the mirror, and he straightens, spinning around with a wide smile. “Allura! Oh, you’re here. Would you mind carrying this for me?”

She takes the proffered eyeshadows and frowns at the heavy colors. “I don't think that we’ll need this much for the shoot, Uncle.”

“Well, you know I always like to be prepared, just in case, watch out for any extra situations. It would be the absolute worst if we were going for a completely different tone of the shoot and there was no proper eyeshadow or– or heavy contour or whatever else to match it! Then you’d just have some little pastry without the frosting!”

Frosting. Right.

“Right,” says Allura. “That’s alright, then. I’ll leave it to you, Uncle.”

He beams at her and pats her back. “No worries here! Ship is flying just safe and sound, like a pack of happy, glutinous wildebeests!”

“Right,” Allura repeats because she has no actual clue what Coran is referring to at the best of times. Considering the ramifications of _glutinous_ wildebeests, Allura returns to the main room where she finds Lance rather frantically plucking at Keith’s shirt. “What’s going on?”

Both men snap straight, eyes bugging out. Allura’s gaze drifts down to the edge of Keith’s sleeve. Lance shifts to block her view, but it’s too late. She sees the smudge.

“Is that _dirt?_ ” She takes a step closer and they both flinch. “ _How?”_

“Keith has the pores of a plague demon,” Lance blurts, and Keith elbows him in the ribs so viciously that even she, ultimate winner of B-Mart, winces. Lance, on the floor wheezing out his last breaths, heaves, “ _I_ _was trying to help you.”_

Keith flips him off neatly and rubs at the dirt stain with a frown — no use. All it does is somehow make it _spread,_ like the magical touch of Jesus with his wine, except it’s a normal college greasemonkey who’s somehow been cursed at birth. What the hell.

“Stop that,” Allura says, whacking at his hand. Keith winces, the kid — she didn’t even hit that hard. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to find another shirt just like this, because I’m certain that I brought a second white shirt —”

Lance raises a feeble finger at a pile of clothes in the corner. There, under the pile: the remnants of a once-white shirt now torn and spotted with what looks like car oil.

“I,” Allura says, then stops. Stares at Keith. His hands are clean. How the _fuck_ in the holy name of Her Distinctive Eminence does that happen? “I. Holy Shiro. I left you two for _a minute.”_

“Disaster strikes swiftly. To quote Hamlet, act 6, scene 4, line 118: ‘There’s a reason why Keith wears dark clothes like an overgrown middle schooler with a car fetish.’”

“When you see me in court two weeks later for a murder charge,” Keith says calmly, “I’ll explain what happened and they’ll let me go, because they’ll understand. I’d write my will if I were you, you shelled peanut.”

“Shelled _pea—”_

  
“ _Boys.”_ They snap to attention, backs board-straight, matching guilty expressions. “Listen. We don’t have enough time to wash the shirt and get the stain out, nor do I want to change your wardrobes just because of a little stain.”

“Little,” Lance says. “Are you sure about that.”

“Please shut up or write your will,” Allura says, honey-sweet. Lance swallows and pantomimes zipping his mouth. Good. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re simply going to cover it up.”

“How?”

“You, Lance, are going to pose in front of Keith, or I’ll angle the camera so the stain won’t be spotted. If you even position your arm right, Keith, I’m certain it won’t show up.”

“That doesn’t sound like a reliable plan,” Keith says.

Allura smiles at him the same way she smiles at the people who think, because she has hair as soft as alpaca wool and eyeshadow that glitters brighter than the night sky, they can win a bet against her. Keith’s lips go white by how hard he presses them together.

“Don’t you trust me?” she asks with a breezy laugh.

They don’t question her again. Coran, who’d been hovering around the corner just outside of the blast radius, takes that as his cue to enter. Mustache quivering with enthusiasm, he gets to work turning their faces from clear-enough to doll-like perfection. It looks strange in person, seeing absolutely zero flaws, especially when Keith and Lance are both beauties in their own right, but the camera is unforgiving. Now she just has to hope that Keith doesn’t end up with the portrait of Mona Lisa on his nose in grease or something.

Just as she thinks it, she hears Coran mutter and pick up his foundation brush again while Keith looks sheepish.

 

* * *

 

When they realize the photoshoot will be outside, both men react rather negatively: Keith, by curling his lip and his nose and somehow his brow; and Lance, by outright hissing. Allura silences and smooths their treasonous expressions by smiling. They follow her out obediently.

Living by campus has its pros and cons. Never being late to class? Not having to rely on public transport? Existing central to all the events and the main transport hub of the city if she wishes to travel anywhere else? She wouldn’t trade it in for the fanciest penthouse suite downtown. And, well, the cons really only extend to the possibility that her...friends’...drunken escapades might be incredibly public and visible to the general student body. Not that it’s happened yet. Not that it ever will, but as her friend group expands, Allura has her reservations.

Reservations that are certainly growing in number as Allura looks over her shoulder to see Lance trying to pinch Keith’s elbow without the latter noticing.

At the edge of the green, Allura calls them to attention. They stare at her like lost puppies, and then like mannequins when she tries to instruct them on poses.

“Seriously, it’s not that difficult. Arm _up_ ,” says Allura.

Keith hikes his elbow up over his head. Lance fake gags and Allura can’t help but agree, though she keeps it from her voice as she says, “Okay, lower. Just...rest it on Lance’s shoulder.”

He complies, but it seems as though he’s in legitimate pain. Allura inhales deeply.

“Right, just, hold on.”

The mannequin act continues while Allura steps up to direct their limbs herself. Once finished, she lifts her camera and moves back until the angle is right, the lighting is right, the—

“I’m going to need the both of you to loosen up a bit,” says Allura, looking down in dissatisfaction at her camera.

“It’s kind of hard to relax when, y’know—” Lance gestures at the unnatural angles of his hips to his knees to his feet.

“The point is making it _look_ natural,” sniffs Allura. Such amateurs. Oh, wait, they are. “Should I get some tequila in here to help you along?”

Keith’s eyes brighten and he opens his mouth in the same moment Lance fake gags _again_. Keith shoots Lance a look, slides his leg back so he can angle himself away. Lance stares at him.

“What?” asks Lance.

Keith says nothing.

“ _What?_ ”

Still nothing. Allura lifts her camera.

“Are you… giving me the _cold shoulder?_ Because I don’t like tequila? AKA ta-kill-ya? Y’know it’s called that for a reason, right?”

Keith mumbles something.

Lance leans into his space and says, “What was that?”

“I said it’s not that bad,” grumbles Keith a little bit louder.

“It’s straight poison.”

“It’s _good_.”

“It’s hangover in a bottle.”

“I don’t get hangovers.”

Pause. Allura lowers the camera after capturing Lance’s evolving incredulous facial expression. Both of them stare at Keith.

“That’s an awfully bold lie,” says Allura.

“And literally impossible,” points out Lance, “ _especially_ when you drink _tequila_ . That shit is like… swallowing a cheese grater, chasing the grater with battery acid, and then chucking in a lit match for shits and giggles. You don’t just _not_ get a hangover. You transcend time and space—you break the fourth wall of this reality. Someone out there is writing our lives out and you just wait, they’re going to give you the worst fucking hangover of your _life_ , and you’ll never have the gall to repeat what you said to me.”

Keith shrugs, avoiding looking at either of them. “And yet it’s true.”

For one terrible moment, Allura wonders if it’s possible to absorb the constitution of other people given the correct tools—such as sucking their souls out by taking their pictures. That was basically the plot of one of the Harry Potter novels, right? So clearly it’s not outside the realm of possibility.

She stares down at the camera. The moment passes. Besides, she wouldn’t have a way to transfer his soul into her—okay, so maybe she’s in dire need of a confessional with Her Jolly Supremacy.

“What the fuck,” whispers Lance. “Okay, hold on.”

He whips around to address a passerby dragging a bag on wheels.

“What is your opinion on tequila?” he asks.

She blinks owlishly at him. “Bad.”

“Okay, anything else?”

Her eyes go wider. Haunted. “ _Bad.”_

“Mmmkay,” Lance says as he lets her go with a hasty wave of his hand. He turns to Keith. “She clearly has an aversion to it. Bad hangover, I’m saying.”

Keith cocks an eyebrow. “Just because some random student has an aversion to tequila doesn’t mean it’s common—”

“Plax!” Lance interrupts, waving to a young woman Allura recognizes from her design course. “Tequila. Opinion.”

Allura finds her memory card filling up with the relaxed slope of their shoulders, and the jaunty cock of their hips, the tilt of their heads. Their smiles and grimaces. The glances shared between them, both amused and exasperated. Sure, there are several smudges and they seem to be travelling over Keith’s clothes, but at this point Allura can’t say she minds too much.

Neither of them catch on to the sound of her shutter going off.

“Your _what_ , sorry?”

Allura looks up from her camera. When did Plaxum leave? She’d been so focused on Keith and Lance that she didn’t even notice the young woman walk off.

“My birthday,” Keith says, arms folded and somehow artfully ruffling his sleeves.

Lance stares at him. “Is when?”

Allura rolls her shoulders back. Several vertebrae pop. “Oh, that’s right. Shiro was talking about a party.”

Keith’s gaze snaps to her. “Party?” he hisses.

“ _When?_ ” Lance has switched to staring at Allura.

She looks between the two of them, arching her eyebrows. “On Keith’s birthday? The twenty-third?”

“I’m not having a party,” declares Keith.

“We’re having a par—No, fuck you, Keith.” Lance pats at his pockets in search of a phone that isn’t on him. “We’re having a party even if it kills you.”

Keith looks to the sky, presumably begging Her Hearty Jubilance for patience. Allura draws her phone out of her back pocket with one hand.

Me [11:33 AM]:

_Was the party supposed to be a secret?_

Shiro [11:33 AM]:

_Yeah why?_

_Oh_

_You didn’t_

Me [11:34 AM]:

_I think he’s throwing a tantrum_

Allura glances up from her phone. Keith is stressfully grabbing at his sleeves, leaving smears of dirt (or plague demon dust or whatever the fuck is going on with him) while Lance bounces around in excited agitation.

Shiro [11:34 AM]:

_Okay you’d better tell him it isn’t an actual party_

_Or else he’ll run away_

_Again_

_High school grad all over again, I can hear the sirens_

Me [11:35 AM]:

_Does he sweat oil?_

Shiro [11:35 AM]:

_What?_

Me [11:36 AM]:

_Nevermind! Okay I’ll tell him!_

“It’s not a real party,” says Allura, interrupting Lance mid-rant. “Just a few people. Presumably.”

Keith’s eyes narrow. “How many.”

“Hm. What would you consider to be too many?”

“Five people.”

“Then no more than five people,” she assures him, crossing her fingers behind her back.

His eyes narrow further. “I take it back. Three people.”

“Oh, would you look at that! Two people just died. Right now.”

“I’m onto you.”

“You are most definitely not.”

“I’m onto you,” he hisses. “You and Shiro. I know he’s behind this.”

She pats his arm, stepping back for more photo taking as she says, “Whatever you say, Keith.”

He’s still squinting at her with mistrust, but he’s just going to have to deal with it. Beside him, Lance has a similar expression, except he’s considering Keith as he taps his chin with one long finger.

“Keith, buddy,” he says.

“What?”

“Is there...anything else I should know?”

“Like _what?”_ Keith sighs.

“I don’t know! What else is going on in your life that’s like… general knowledge?”

Keith gives him a ruthlessly disgusted look. “Uh. Like what I had for breakfast?”

“Sure! Fuck! I don’t know! Hobbies? Does oozing grime from another dimension count as a pastime?”

“Yeah, that, definitely,” deadpans Keith. “On my days off when I’m not working or running track, I jump to another dimension and collect the goo from demons—”

“Track?”

“Yeah, I—”

“You fucking _run track?”_

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> it me, [bwyn](http://bitterbeetle.tumblr.com)  
> and it [yui](http://yuisaki-drabbles.tumblr.com)
> 
> everyone send yui drabble prompts bls :)))))) tell her bwyn sent you.


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